Bit is sucking his bottom lip, ready to cast. He has a jerky casting motion that tends to plop the float down onto the water too hard. I’m hoping he won’t scare the fish away. My friend casts, the orange float sailing through the air and landing plop onto the surface of the water. We both watch it bob there, out from the weeds, and already starting to drift downstream. Not high enough, though not too bad.

“You know,” says Bit, watching the float, “blind.”

“She’s blind?” I press the end of my hook several times through the body of a wriggling worm. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Bit glances up, as if I might be serious, then gets it.

“Sucker,” I say good-naturedly.

My hook is made from the iron nail I found at the ruins and I’m proud of it, a good strong hook this one for a good-sized fish. I’ve hammered it into shape, and filed the end to a sharp point. Yes, a hook to catch the big fish that lives in this stretch of water. I hooked it once before and it leaped clear out of the water, a beautiful silvery fish, before it snapped the line and took off with my hook. This one, I’ve tied it onto my line with extra knots, a skein of strong knots, working on it back at the house, determined not to lose this hook. I’ve got a feeling this is going to be my lucky hook.

“But why?” Bit continues.

Bit has a way of persisting, like a terrier after a fox. He’ll wear you down with his “but why”s and “how come”s. In another time and place, he would be the teacher’s pet. By now Bit’s float is too far downstream. If he’s not careful, his hook will get snagged under the bridge.

With a flick of my wrist, I cast the way my father taught me, the float landing softly onto the surface.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I tell him finally, hoping to shut him up.

My float bobs along, two or three lengths above the weed bed. Probably not much chance today of hooking the big one – not with Bit here – on the other hand, I might get a smaller fish. No matter how big, Nanna can always use it. Even the fingerlings – though, mindful of the future, I usually throw them back.

“But–” Bit starts to say again, frowning. He’ll have heard the rumours from the old folk.

Shouts come from up above, and the sound of boots on stone, running. Startled, we glance around, and I feel a tug of fear.